


Even the Strongest

by ScribeOfRED



Series: box of remedies [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fill, Sickfic, a dash of romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 08:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: Araneanevergets sick, right? Wrong.





	Even the Strongest

**Author's Note:**

> For Remedy, who requested #1 off [this list](https://scribeofred.tumblr.com/post/183556190882/)

Nyx hears it before he’s even properly awake. It’s strange, if not exactly threatening, but he opens his eyes regardless, staring up at the tent’s peaked ceiling before slowly rolling his head left across his pillow, toward the noise that’s pulled him out of the depths of sleep.

Not just noise—breathing. Familiar breathing, at least in cadence: as always, it’s rhythmic, three seconds inhaling, followed by four seconds exhaling. But the pitch is all wrong. It’s... whistling. Wheezy.

Nyx frowns, takes great care in propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look. Frowns harder at the bright patches he finds high on Aranea’s cheeks. Despite her naturally pale skin tones, she isn’t prone to easy blushing, though it’s been known to happen. But this is hardly a simple blush, and as Nyx wakes, he’s becoming aware of the heat radiating from her entire body, pressed close into his side where normally there are chilly fingers and downright icy toes.

Congested breathing, possible fever... could it be?

His pulse ticks up a few BPM. He’s never seen her with a cold before. Ever.

He sits up a little more, and this time Aranea reacts, creases between her brows deepening as she fists a hand in his shirt and makes a distinctly unhappy noise that cuts off abruptly. She swallows, once, twice, then cracks one eye open and peers up at him. He must be wearing that concerned face she has such fun teasing him about, because she scoffs before shutting her eye again. “Damn Meteor.”

Try as he might, he can’t help but wince at how rough her voice sounds—far worse than her usual just-woken-up voice. “How is this the Meteor’s fault?”

 “Got sick last time I visited it too.” She scrubs her hand, still tangled in his shirt, across his ribs, the action somehow chastising. “Stop worrying, hot stuff. ’S just a little cold.”

 “I’m not—” Okay, yeah, he is worried. Hardly his fault—he didn’t even know she _could_ get sick. “Fine, fine. I’ll try. Next time tell me this is liable to happen, though, okay?”

 “So you can worry more?”

 “So I can help you,” he corrects her, and is gratified that their relationship has progressed to the point where the gathering tension bleeds out of her shoulders instead of condensing.

 “Mkay.”

He plans to delve into why this happens around the Meteor and, apparently, nowhere else, but not right now, not when it’s clearly costing her comfort to speak. So instead he brushes his fingers over her forehead, pushing back the strands clinging to her heated skin, then goes to sit up all the way.

Only to be yanked straight back down.

 “Hey, I was going to make you some tea,” he complains, even as he settles into his pillow again, already resigned. “You really sound like you could use some.”

 “Later. Stay.” Aranea nestles her head on his chest, hand still gripping his shirt as though to keep him from moving again. “Warm.”

 “Hate to break it to you, but you’re the warm one here.” She’s hot, actually, by every definition of the word, although right now she’s almost uncomfortable to stay beside now that he’s waking up properly, but this is the first time he’s seen her even remotely under the weather before, and already he can tell he’s going to cave to her every need while they sort out how to traverse this new challenge.

She makes a breathy noise he takes as agreement—or it’s her scolding him. Equally possible. He supposes he won’t know until it no longer hurts her to talk.

Still, he decides as he wraps his arm around her shoulders and lets her draw whatever solace she needs from him, he can’t complain, especially since this angle seems to allow her to breathe a bit easier. “Whatever you need, it’s yours, love.”

The sound she makes is softer this time, sleepy, and he takes that as an assurance that she’ll be all right. It just might take her a little while to get there again.


End file.
